Toast
by LikeButterOverTooMuchBread
Summary: Phryne brings Jack a special morning treat, and gets one in return. (Oneshot)


Phryne Fisher surveyed the damage as she lay on her back across her wide bed. She herself bore no marks of the previous evening, but her pillows were nowhere to be found, a chair had been overturned, and her previous day's stockings, now knotted and stretched around a knob on her headboard, were beyond repair. Her partner in these crimes had departed early for the docks – a delightful first-class guest aboard a pleasure boat captained by a murderer. While the captain had come quietly enough, the guests had become quite rowdy at the interruption of their voyage. Phryne had been happy to subdue this one, though he'd ended up being more than a little lazy at the last. What had he said he was? Peloponnesian, or had he just come from the Philippines?

As she turned onto her stomach, she discovered her sheets smelled strongly of the ocean and sex. Bless Dot, she thought once again, for never commenting on the state of her laundry. Shoes on top of sideboards, a duvet lost to gold body paint – she felt underneath her to investigate a hard lump under the top sheet. An expensive-looking, unopened jar of cherries with a label in Greek. Well, more likely Peloponnesian than Filipino, then. She popped open the lid carefully and dipped a finger in to taste one of the dark cherries in heavy syrup. How nice. Perhaps Dot could find something to bake with them. Or perhaps…

Phryne dressed thoughtfully in one of her all-white ensembles and breezed downstairs. She entered the kitchen at the same time as Mr. Butler. If he was surprised by her early start, he didn't show it, dear man. He pointed her toward a small jar of clotted cream in the icebox, at her request, and she was soon on her way to the station. Constable Collins was nowhere to be seen – perhaps holed up somewhere doing paperwork. Then she was in Jack's office. His heavy-lidded eyes lifted to hers from a file on his desk, and a weight she hadn't known she carried suddenly lifted. The flirtatious smile on her face threatened to spread, but she quashed the inappropriate swell of emotion.

"What time is it?" he asked, suspiciously.

"Too early for murder, I hope," she laughed, draping herself over the furthest corner of his desk. He smelled more strongly of his aftershave in the morning.

"Too early for you, then."

"I do try to keep with a murderer's schedule. It helps me understand them better."

"Perhaps I should be worried about the criminal activities you undertake after our nightcaps, Miss Fisher." Pert. She liked it.

"Perhaps someone should keep an eye on me afterwards, then." Jack gave her one of his inscrutable smiles. Too much – she backed off. "Probably not necessary, though. If I did off someone, I've decided I'd do so in the early morning to throw off suspicion. Around 6 o'clock."

"You've decided?"

"What, you haven't imagined how you might murder someone?"

"No."

"Jack, that's just unimaginative."

"Why are you here, Miss Fisher?"

"I wanted to steal your toast."

Jack appeared unfazed. "Mr. Butler couldn't take care of something like that for you?"

"Theft? Hadn't occurred to me – perhaps next time."

"He could take care of your toast."

"But yours is so much better."

Jack took pity on her: "I haven't made it yet."

"Then allow me."

"You?"

"Yes, I assume you have some sort of facilities for doing so here?" It occurred to her that she hadn't seen any staff available to cook or clean around the station. She caught a glimpse of Jack's early-morning routine, fishing in an icebox for butter, lighting the gas, trying to catch the toast at the perfect temperature.

"Back through there, to your right." He indicated the direction of Constable Collins's usual station at the front desk.

"Then I'll give it a try."

Jack was the picture of forbearance as he nodded and returned to his papers. She took a peek at them: a witness statement for the back-alley murder they'd solved last week. She'd been there – Jack must be preparing for a court hearing.

"When do you go to court?"

Jack paused and looked up with surprise. "What?"

She gestured at the papers. He let out a quick breath and hastily answered, "Next week. Just keeping it fresh in my mind, rereading a bit every morning."

Another glimpse into his morning routine. She should arrive early more often. But she hadn't missed the note of panic when she'd asked about his court date. She tried to catch his eye again, but he was stubbornly reabsorbed in the statement. She slid off the desk – allowing the corner to slide the side slit of her skirt high up her thigh. She paused minutely before readjusting the fabric. His eyes didn't move, didn't even widen a hair. The man was stone.

She wandered in the direction she'd indicated, feeling her handbag to make sure she hadn't forgotten the cherries by some wild accident. No such mistake – there they were, with the clotted cream.

The teapot was already filled, and on the small stovetop in the station kitchen, which was little more than a pantry, really. She lit the stove under the teapot and searched for bread, ducking through cabinets, bumping her head on a corner with a loud curse. Giving up for the moment, she struggled to light the second burner – and then, reconsidering timing and the wasted gas if she didn't find bread immediately, she turned it off again.

She found two small bowls for the cherries and cream. She spooned them out, dipping in her fingers into the cherry jar to pick another out one for a taste-test. They were still perfect. She licked her fingers clean as she tried to find a tray – and failing to find the tray, she did find the bread. She struggled and relit the burner again, cursing. She really would need to reimburse the station for the matches she was wasting, this was an embarrassment. Why was everything so much harder in the morning?

Phryne began to toast the bread. She burnt her first slice. The next was better. She put it on the plate behind her on the table with one hand and began toasting the next with her other. She fancied herself a factory worker, toasting the day away on an assembly line. She began to whistle, urging the teapot to a boil. When it began to whistle with her, she tried to match the tone.

When she turned off the burners and turned around to put the last slice of toast on the waiting plate, clotted cream and cherries at the ready, teapot ready to serve, she discovered Inspector Jack Robinson watching her from the door. His hand was over his mouth, his eyes sparkling with something like amusement.

"How long have you been there?" It was an accusation.

He uncovered tight lips to wave away the question, as if to say, "not long."

Phryne shot him a warning glance.

"You sounded like you might need a bit of help."

"Well, I didn't." She indicated all ready. "I can't find a tray, but if you carry the teapot, I'll get the rest of this."

He nodded and moved to take two cups from a cupboard, and picked up the teapot. Phryne took the plate of toast, the dark cherries in their thick red syrup, and the small bowl of clotted cream, and balanced them up her arm like plates of rations for her patients during the War. Jack gave her the nod to lead the way. She took a careful step.

Her careful step slipped underneath her, and she stumbled. It had been a number of years since she was a nurse, and her shoes then had been decidedly more sensible. In retrospect, she should have balanced the toast and taken greater care with the clotted cream and the cherries. The cream clattered to the floor, and the cherries slipped down the front of her all-white dress, leaving a long, sticky red trail – but the toast was safe.

Phryne felt a blue streak of curses rise within her throat, but now knowing she was observed, she confined herself to a "damn." She carefully put down the toast on the table again and began to pick up the spilled cherries. She ducked her head to hide the unexpected tears stinging her eyes, not looking to see how Jack might be reacting to her lack of grace.

After a deep breath: "looks like it'll be buttered toast after all, Jack Robinson."

There was a tap as he put down the teapot and the cups. He crouched and entered her line of sight. "Miss Fisher, please leave it be."

Her fingers were stained with the cherries she continued to find on the floor. She knew her face was red as well. "I feel quite the schoolgirl – serves me right for not leaving this sort of thing to Dot."

"Phryne."

Phryne stopped immediately, startled to hear her first name said in such a tone.

"Leave it." He reached over and took her hand, lifting her to stand with him. At forearm's length, he looked her up and down, all sweet red syrup and lipstick and white dress and black shiny hair. She felt how close they were standing. How he hadn't released her hand.

Jack swallowed. "Thank you for trying. It looked… delicious." She read on his face the way he could feel the heat of her flush, the ache he felt at her disappointment, the remaining amusement, the terrible fondness. He could be such an open book, or so closed. She longed to pull him in and capture his full upper lip between her own, and make sure he could never shut her out again.

Then the impossible happened – he moved in himself. His free hand snaked slowly and gently around her waist. The hand holding hers pulled her forward. His nose lightly bumped her own – and then she felt his lips finally, blessedly on her own, tasting her, pulling her into his arms further. She held herself away as she kissed him, careful not to stain his clothing with the sticky red juice, but when he pulled her body flush to him she felt every inch of her skin suddenly awake and desperate for his touch. He moved from her mouth to whisper into her neck, his voice thick and full of promise, "what a lovely taste, Miss Fisher." She shut her eyes. If she had been a fainting woman, she would have fainted then.

Instead, she slipped her arms around his waist and kissed his neck, smelling of early morning and aftershave. His breathless groan let her to kiss, and nibble the spot again, pulling him tighter to her and feeling his hard length pressing into her stomach. His hands crept up her back, down to her lower back, unsatisfied and searching for purchase – she disengaged long enough to hop up seated to the table with the toast and pulled him in again, placing his hands on her hips. He slowed down and they kissed again, long and deep. She teased him – discovered how sensitive the corners of his mouth were – and he discovered how much she liked him to use his teeth. Together they tested how much of the heat they could bear, for how long. She still couldn't believe what was happening, couldn't stop long enough to think properly. His hands crept to the insides of her knees, over her bunched-up skirt, tracing the slit up her thigh, back down.

They were moving so quickly. She needed to give him a way out. She needed to know why he was giving in now, after all this time, all his scruples, and make sure this wasn't something he'd regret. She placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back. He obliged and looked down into her eyes. So many questions, but it seemed the only answer she needed was in his face: he needed her. She moved her hand to loosen his collar, slowly, one final invitation to stop what was happening and turn her away.

He closed his eyes and covered her hand with his. They could not continue. She sighed and reclaimed her hands. She couldn't say she was surprised. Jack was never one to put his needs ahead of his duties. She waited for him to speak, catching her breath, waiting for her world to go back to normal, and then – more than likely – fall apart.

"I need to go home and change clothes before Constable Collins comes in for his orders." She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. He took a deep breath and continued, after a moment: "I don't suppose you'd care to join me?"

She looked up in shock. Jack wasn't backing away. Phryne's smile felt like it could split her face. "In the Hispano?"

"It is faster," he ground out.

Together, they raced to the car.

When Constable Collins arrived at the station, he was surprised to see the Inspector and Phryne Fisher wheeling away in the Hispano at top speed – usually, if there was an emergency, Jack insisted on using the police vehicle. He was even more surprised to find the station abandoned but unlocked, and the teapot hot on the stove. When he saw the clotted cream and cherries spilled on the floor, he picked up the phone, panicking. Dot answered to his relief: "no, Hugh, there's no family emergency that I'm aware." She covered the receiver for a moment and whispered to someone, then returned: "Mr. Butler says Miss Fisher just went into the station early this morning to bring Inspector Robinson breakfast. What's wrong?"

Hugh explained the situation and admitted probably nothing was wrong, but asked her to stay by the phone just in case, as would he.

When Inspector Jack Robinson walked shakily back into the station three hours later, Hugh was full of questions – but seeing the look on his mentor's face, Hugh decided not to ask.


End file.
